


Action and Reaction

by tek9cb



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Force dreams, Inspired by Original Screenplay Ending, The Force Is Weird, fix-it (sort of), time loops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9359156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tek9cb/pseuds/tek9cb
Summary: Jyn Erso dies on a beach on Scarif, together with Cassian Andor. She dies on that beach so many times that she loses count, that she can’t imagine anything after, can hardly remember a life before. She wasn’t, isn’t meant to, but she does, again and again and again. Until she doesn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is happening because I'm desperate for more Rogue One content but somewhat dissatisfied by what's available. Fix-its are great and all but like... I want a _reason_ for everything to be better. And what better reason is there than the filmmakers admitting that none of them were really supposed to die, except that they didn't know what to do with characters that obviously hadn't been in A New Hope? 
> 
> Anyway, the so-called "romance" in the movie was very hamfisted and forced but I still ship it like the goddamn fool I am.

Jyn Erso has been many things in her relatively short life. She has been a liar, a thief, a saboteur. More than anything, though, she is pragmatic. She hadn’t needed K-2SO to tell her that the odds of her—of any of them—managing to make it off Scarif had been vanishingly small, that chances of success had been similar. She also knew that the cost of failure was potentially billions upon billions of lives, and Jyn Erso had spent enough of her life being selfish.

Far below, she can see fire and scrap on the landing platform where Bodhi had set down Rogue One, can make out downed rebel ships on beaches scattered with bodies. She can see that there are no more rebel ships in atmo. She imagines she can see that small chance for an after dwindling, zeroes stretching out past a decimal ad nauseum, growing longer with every passing instant. The death star enters orbit, huge and reflective, larger and brighter than the setting sun. It’s an arresting sight, and she knows, with finality, that the odds have dropped to zero. Cassian tugs at her shoulder from where he leans heavily on her, and she turns towards the elevator Krennic had stepped out of.

On the beach, an instant and an eternity later, light and heat washes pleasantly over her. A handful of skirmishes are ongoing, the last stragglers of the rebels hunted and dying. It is, effectively, an active warzone; it’s loud. It’s not loud enough. The intense heat of the explosion she can see—can’t possibly tear her eyes away from, is entranced by—from where she clings to Cassian’s shoulders is incongruously silent. Cognitively, she supposes that the sound and shockwave must be several seconds behind the radiation, as the point of impact must be more than a mile off shore by her estimate. This knowledge does nothing to assuage the nagging sense of unreality and disconnect as a massive wave of superheated ocean races towards them. She’s bathed in warmth and light that feels like sunlight and clutching tightly at a person just as touch starved as she is; a person who had saved her life moments ago, no matter how briefly; a person who had welcomed her home on Yavin IV. She’s fairly certain that dying isn’t supposed to feel better than the last fifteen years of her life.

She wonders if Cassian had meant to shield her with his body when he’d fallen to his knees, pulled her down with him. Or if he’d meant to shield himself from seeing the shockwave that is a second, half-second, instant away.

Her whole world is consumed in light and white and heat and she can’t breathe—

The universe tilts sickeningly and Jyn Erso dies with Cassian Andor.

\--

Jyn Erso startles awake in the narrow cot she’s been permitted on Yavin IV, a scream clawing at her throat. She clutches the shard of kyber crystal (large enough to power a lightsaber, her mother had often told her. You come from a long line of Jedi, a gift from the force, my treasure, stardust—) against her clavicle, thumbs the worn leather chord. Jyn has never much liked dreaming, so often too dark, too vivid, too visceral. But her mother had always put such stock in dreams, had always teased them out of her in full detail even as she gently comforted her daughter. Jyn hadn’t understood at the time, still doesn’t really understand the strength of her conviction.

Nothing useful or actionable had ever come of it, her nightmares had always just been nightmares, and Jyn had grown resentful of the superstition that had failed to save her mother.

Jyn lurches off the too-hard mattress and scrubs a hand down her face, allows the details of the dream to slip from her mind as she hauls herself to the communal ‘fresher down the hall. The council will be meeting soon to hear her and Cassian’s testimony regarding what they’ve found about the Empire’s new weapon. Jyn’s mind still shies away from thoughts of Jedha, but she hopes that, this time, that horror will push them to action rather than—

Jyn starts, almost choking on the water she’s gargling, and coughs for a few moments. Some friendly soldier slaps her on the back a few times before she waves him off, leaving her to stare into the mirror, remnants of tooth powder at the corner of her mouth. Why had she thought “this time”? Why was dread pooling low in her stomach?

The sick feeling in her stomach follows her back to her closet of a room, crawls over her skin as she shimmies into clothes that are still filthy. She jumps when someone—Cassian, but why does she know—knocks on the door, sliding it open.

“We’re expected in the command center at 0800 hours for our testimony.” He’s all aloof professionalism and cold disdain and it feels _wrong_ in ways that Jyn can’t pin down, more so than it should just from the argument they’d had on the way back from Eadu, with all its revelations. More than anything, it feels too familiar when she responds,

“Actually, _you’re_ expected in the command center. _I_ am expected to have run off already.” It’s true, as far as she can tell. Of the higher ups she’s met so far, none of them seemed to think much of her. “How do you think your rebellion will respond? Scarif would—will be quite a risk, is Jedha enough to scare them into getting off their asses?”

Cassian has already taken off down the hall and Jyn follows, steps quick to match his longer stride. He doesn’t bother to respond, and peels off to the other side of the table when they reach the command center, taking his place near General Draven. Jyn finds Bodhi and stands next to him, nods at Chirrut and Baze across the room.

The council offers up their opening remarks, moves on to discussing the intel Cassian must have relayed in debriefing hours ago. They never ask for Jyn’s input, but she offers it anyway when she can see that panic and despair are overwhelming hope and righteous fury. It’s a rousing speech, she thinks; she draws inspiration from her years spent with Saw, from Cassian’s throw-away “rebellions are built on hope.” By the end of it, her voice is raw, unused to speaking so much at once after years of isolation. The change of mood in the room is palpable, and she even starts to believe what she’s said.

It’s not enough.

Jyn stands silently, disgusted with the bureaucracy of it all and fighting down the sense of deja vu that crawls up her spine as one by one the council casts their votes for inaction and surrender. She watches numbly as Cassian slips through the press of bodies, can’t quite make herself hear the half-hearted debate that continues around her. It doesn’t matter, the council has already decided to surrender, to cower in the face of a weapon that could (would, will, has already) take millions, billions of lives. She doesn’t want to surrender.

Neither, apparently, does Cassian. He ambushes her not long after with a band of assembled soldiers, each just as furious and bristling as she is. She should be surprised that he’d defy orders after more than twenty years, should be filled with the same hope he seems to feel, vindicated that her speech moved _someone_. Instead, she just feels weary. The flight to Scarif is short, tense, and unsettlingly familiar. By the time they land, Jyn has convinced herself that it’s flight sickness and manages to rally the twenty men that have stuffed themselves into the stolen Imperial cargo ship.

The ramshackle plan is made and carried out as well as can be expected. The rebel back-up arrives too late and too few. The death star plans are transmitted at tremendous loss of life.

And Jyn Erso dies on a beach on Scarif, engulfed in light and warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up if you liked it, comments are always appreciated! In fact, they are the number one best way to motivate me to actually finish this dastardly piece of content. I'm [taakosmagicmissile](http://www.taakosmagicmissile.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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